I think of myself as a "sentimental minimalist." Does that sound like an oxymoron? At first glance, maybe it is, but it doesn't have to be one.
When we reminisce, we see how our experiences layer together to create our current selves. It's tempting to categorize our past into separate chunks of time, but people are fluid. Sandra Cisneros explores that concept in her superb short story "Eleven,"
Nostalgia grounds us. It reminds us who we are and what we value. I'll always welcome a foray into nostalgia, whether it's through a conversation, a photo, or even a long-ago scent. That's the part of me that's staunchly sentimental and sees the wonder in the everyday.
On the other hand, I can't stand clutter. It's a challenge, especially with children, but our family regularly sheds the belongings that no longer bring us meaning or serve a purpose. It's an ongoing process, but we try to stay on top of it.
I do have one catch-all closet that refuses to stay organized, no matter how many times I've tried. On my least minimalist days, I've opened the door and literally thrown items inside. So, the system isn't perfect. (Spoiler alert: nothing is perfect).
Overall, though, minimalism has brought me peace and clarity. My focus and writing improve dramatically when I don't have distractions. I still hold onto my intrinsic sentimentality, though. Of all the things I've shed over the years, it's a non-negotiable keeper.
How do I balance the two? I keep the strongest representatives of the past, and with less clutter, I'm able to revisit those bits of nostalgia more often. A pile of favorite toys from babyhood? I keep the few with the best longevity (hi, future grandchildren!). A cluster of knick-knacks? I keep the ones that conjure the most cherished memories. And so on.
I try to apply the same philosophy to my writing. In first drafts, I drift toward descriptive prose. There are too many adjectives. Certainly too many adverbs. In subsequent drafts, I cut them out. I keep the most effective language and shed the rest. It's a balancing act, just like so much of life. Remember that spoiler alert? It's not perfect. Writing is an art, and art often relies on intuition.
So, I'll keep searching for that harmony of sentimental minimalism, both on and off the page. Sometimes I'll throw stuff in the catch-all closet. Sometimes I'll revise a sentence until it radiates clarity. And, sometimes, an adverb will slip through (determinedly).
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